


The Quest for the Knife

by dancer_me



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Hearing Voices, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Magic Revealed, Protective Arthur, Protective Gwaine, Violence, merlin whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer_me/pseuds/dancer_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a quest for a knife, and ended with a quest for a life. The blade, rumoured to seek out great power, would be safest in the vaults of Camelot. But when strange happenings keep befalling his manservant and mysterious visions plague his own dreams, Arthur will begin to worry. For if the knife cannot have what it wants - then no one can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first story for the Merlin fandom and I'm so excited :) I love this fandom, and I'm constantly impressed with the quality of writers. I've had this story planned out for a couple months now, and I'm happy to be fleshing it out from an outline to a story and finally sharing it. I'm posting the chapters in tandem with my dancer-me account on FF.net.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, despite how desperately I wish I did. 
> 
> It was such a struggle picking the genre categories for this. I want too many of them! This is bromance with a healthy serving of hurt/comfort and drama. Add in a sprinkle of humour for flavour.
> 
> Warnings include friendship galore, Merlin whump, and Merlin’s magic eventually being revealed.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this adventure as much as I've enjoyed creating it!

Merlin was in a pickle.

A conundrum, of sorts. Otherwise known to some as a problem, but a warlock didn’t concern himself with such trivial things.

There was plenty enough to be concerned about in the near future, when he and Arthur Pendragon, King of Captured-A-Lot, inevitably escaped these bandits.

“Stop squirming, Merlin.”

“I’m not squirming.”

“Yes, you are. And it’s distracting.”

“Distracting you from what, exactly?” Merlin wiggled for emphasis. “Attempting to break loose from these ropes with your mind?”

Their present situation had the two back to back on a cold stone floor, both tied at the wrists with a rough, scratchy rope that itched at the slightest movement. Merlin couldn’t very well help the squirming.

They were in what appeared to have once been a nobleman’s manor, until it came into the hands of this merry band of thieves, supposedly some time ago. The manor’s interior was very similar to that of a barracks. There were two entryways into the large hall they were sequestered in– one north, in front of Merlin, and one south, in front of Arthur. Tapestries still hung from the walls, but were showing the beginnings of being caked in the telltale dust and grime that befalls a piece of art when it’s been long neglected.

“This is becoming something of a habit, for you.” Merlin said with a long suffering sigh. He shot the king a disapproving look the man obviously couldn’t see, as Arthur scratched his bindings against Merlin’s wrists yet again, clearly testing the integrity of the ropes.

“It is _not_.” Arthur shot back, still bumping into Merlin as he continued to try to wriggle free of the ropes. His testing was causing the pair to jostle, and Merlin shot the bandit in the room who appeared to be their guard his most innocent smile.

Oh, don’t mind us; we’re not trying to escape.

As if that was going to keep the bandits from catching on soon enough and tying his and Arthur’s ankles together, too. But, then again, Merlin pondered as he stared at the vagrant who appeared to be the leader of this band –perhaps they were that daft. When Merlin and Arthur had been cornered in the forest, he thought he heard some of the men refer to their bearded leader as Georg. Georg was presently in deep conversation in the far corner of the hall with a tall, gangly youth who had definitely made the wrong decisions in life.

Their conversation was supposedly of great import, what with the way the youth was nodding his head vigorously. And yet, it was of not nearly as much importance as it could be if the bandits only knew who they held captive.

As it were, they’d given no indication that they were aware they were in the possession of the King of Camelot and his manservant.

Merlin dearly hoped they continued to be oblivious long after the two managed to escape from this place.

Arthur shifted again.

Merlin smiled charmingly at the guard, heretofore known as Hairy. Hairy had copious amounts of hair, held back from his eyes with a grungy red bandana.  

What had they been talking about again? Oh, yes. This situation being entirely Arthur’s fault.

“Nothing good ever happens in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. I’ve said that before, haven’t I? Yes, yes I have. And did you listen then either? N _ooo_.” Merlin wasn’t whining. He was simply stating facts. Time and time again, Arthur’s Top Secret quests would lead them through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and that would inevitably lead them into peril. Each time Merlin had to use his magic to help them escape, a cold rush of fear wracked his entire body. If Arthur ever noticed...

Merlin wasn’t prepared to deal with that. The what-ifs were too many, and his fear of his best friend’s reaction to the burden of his secret too great. Arthur would feel betrayed by the only person he knew he could trust, and be forced to make a decision of immeasurable weight. Merlin forcefully squeezed his eyes shut and tried to banish the unwanted thoughts. Now was not the time.

“If it wasn’t for the clumsy way you clamour about, _Mer_ lin, these men would have never found us in the first place.”

“Well perhaps if you gave me less to carry,” Merlin growled, “I wouldn’t have cause to stumble so much!”

“Are you _sassing_ me Merlin?” Arthur questioned dramatically. “Because I’ll have you know that there’s a special punishment reserved for servants who sass the K –“

“Oh do _shut up_ , you prat.” Merlin hissed, smacking Arthur in the back with his bound wrists for emphasis, “they don’t know who you are, and I’m inclined to have it stay that way.”

“You worry too much Merlin,” Arthur laughed.

Laughed?

“I fail to see anything funny about this situation, sire.” Merlin’s eyes did another scan of the hall. Other than the tapestries on the walls and chandeliers burning above, the room they were held in was scarcely furnished. There was nothing Merlin could have fall over and knock someone out, inconspicuously. Of course, the chandeliers could conveniently fall and crush the bandits, but Merlin tossed aside that idea almost as quickly as it came to him.

Even Arthur’s general obliviousness to Merlin’s magical intervention would be challenged with the magnitude of _that_ coincidence. Merlin would have a hard time passing it off as complete and utter luck.

“They can’t hear a word we’re saying.” Arthur explained, “They’re not even really paying attention. If this was the way the guards in Camelot did their duties, it’s a wonder we manage to keep any prisoners at all.”

Merlin murmured what he hoped sounded like agreement, the very embodiment of someone who had never snuck past the Camelot guard, ever. Not once.

“When I can free myself of these ties,” Arthur was saying, “I’ll take down that guard over _there_ and relieve him of his sword. After that I’ll make short work of the rest and we’ll be back on our way, only half a day behind schedule.”

“ _Arthur!”_ Merlin reprimanded, “Are you _mad_? There’s one of you and at least four of them. I saw another sentry pass by the entrance to this hall not two moments ago. Any sound and he’ll be in here before you get a hold of that sword.”

“And what am I?” Arthur sounded affronted, “a Simpleton? I’m outnumbered, not outclassed.”

“You’re a very skilled swordsman,” Merlin agreed, reluctantly. Arthur was, in fact, the best swordsman Merlin had ever seen. He wasn’t worried about Arthur’s skill; he was worried about the unpredictable. And tied up, with his butt planted firmly and painfully on the floor in the middle of this wide open space with no cover, it would be practically impossible for Merlin to ensure Arthur’s safety without giving himself away.

“But,” Merlin added, “You don’t know what secrets these men hold. _And,_ I might add, you’ve been trussed up for half a day. Your arms will be weak. You’re the – “ He stopped himself. “An important man, Arthur. You can’t go risking your life all the time.”

It was foolish enough that Arthur was out on this quest in the first place, without any of his knights for protection. Yes, he had Merlin and his magic, even if Arthur didn’t know that, but Merlin couldn’t use his magic freely.

What was truly foolish was the object of this quest.

“Going out on a quest for another shiny object,” Merlin complained, “and picking a fight against armed assailants with your hands tied behind your back. You’re likely to wind up _dea-d._ ” He was heavy on the _d_ in dead, hoping to emphasize the importance of his concern for Arthur.

And he really was concerned.

Merlin knew it was no simple, shiny object that Arthur sought for the vaults of Camelot. No, it was far, far more dangerous than Arthur and his council could even begin to imagine.

They were after a blade – a knife – that was whispered to be immensely powerful. It could, the legends of the townsfolk who visited Camelot said, strike down an enemy without even coming into contact with them. Arthur and his council believed that it was not safe to let such a weapon remain unguarded in its resting place the legends spoke of. It had to be retrieved and kept safe in the vaults of Camelot, from those that would use it to cause harm.

As if no one ever broke into the vaults of Camelot.

The knife, Merlin now knew after seeking Gaius’ council, was not just a mythical weapon. It was a relic of the darkest black magic of the Old Ways, and Merlin was heavily in favour of leaving it _exactly_ where it was.

“ _Dead,_ Merlin?” The way Arthur said ‘dead’ was as if the mere suggestion of that as an outcome was completely ludicrous, “your concern is really quite touching.”

Merlin went on as if the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“ _Dead_ , Arthur. As in death. Deceased. No longer living. Expired –“

“I know what dead _means_ , Merlin,” Arthur said with no small amount of exasperation, “don’t be stupid.”

“Well if you know what it means, my lord,” Merlin muttered, “I can’t imagine why you’re so eager to go running into it.”

Merlin felt Arthur’s head shift infinitesimally, and he just _knew_ Arthur was slanting him one of his incredulous looks.

“I didn’t think imagining was something your pitiful excuse for a brain was capable of,” Arthur tossed over his shoulder.

“I take offense to that.”

“Well,” Arthur said, shifting once more, “you can file your grievances with the King at a later date. Right now, we’re getting out of here.”

“Arthur, don’t do anything rash - !”

Merlin’s words fell on deaf ears. Or rather, on ears that no longer were pressed inches away from his own. Somehow, Arthur had managed to lunge to his feet in one fluid, athletic motion, wrists still securely bound behind his back. Merlin felt a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach building rapidly with the loss of what had become a familiar pressure of Arthur’s back pressed against his own.

Merlin couldn’t see Arthur. He couldn’t see him and he couldn’t protect him and – Merlin flung his bodyweight to the right and twisted in one of his more ungraceful moves. His left shoulder slammed into the rough stone floor and his neck muscles strained to keep his head from bashing into the ground as well.

Merlin wiggled and propped himself up on his elbow as best he could as he stared in shock and watched Arthur run full tilt into the startled guard he had picked out earlier, as if he truly planned to take him down like a battering ram.

Arthur shoulder-checked the bandit into the stone wall – a move that held considerably more power when he was wearing his usual chainmail, but seeing as this was an extra-top-secret, extra-dangerous mission, he had chosen to wear only his red tunic and vest, instead, so as not to draw unnecessary attention. Regardless of _that_ , Merlin could see that Arthur’s attack had the desired effect. The bandit, winded and shocked and surprisingly wholly unprepared, relaxed his grip on his sword.

His very _sharp_ sword, Merlin was capable of noticing as Arthur followed his shoulder-check into a spin and slipped down against the blade, severing his wrist ties and breaking loose.

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief. Arthur was, if not anything else, a magnificent warrior. But the moment was short lived; that sinking feeling was back in Merlin’s stomach as in the few seconds following Arthur’s rise from the ground – the whole scenario really had gone down quite swiftly – several cries rose up from the other nearby bandits.

Arthur smashed his elbow back into his bandit and liberated the now unconscious man of his sword, raising it just in time to clash with his new opponent – Georg.

_Oh no oh no oh no oh no..._

Merlin wiggled ferociously, frantically looking around for a way to use his magic to help Arthur without revealing himself.

Another chorus of shouts – the gangly youth had run off within the manor and come back with reinforcements. Merlin could hear the countless footfalls echoing as what had to be a _platoon_ of attackers rounded a nearby bend and rapidly approached the north entrance to the hall – the one now behind Merlin.

Merlin flung himself to the side once more and flopped over, facing the entrance that would soon be flooded with blood thirsty, dangerous men. But _oh_ , _Gods_ , Merlin had been so distracted worrying about Arthur that he had completely forgotten about Hairy.

As the clash and clang of steel against steel reverberated behind him, Merlin’s eyes widened in shock as Hairy came barrelling down upon him, a nasty looking dagger in his grimy, fingerless gloved hand.

 _Damn it all!_ Merlin didn’t have a choice – Arthur was distracted, and it was now or never. If he didn’t act now, he was going to be mincemeat.

With the flash of amber eyes, Hairy went flailing back through the air and careened into the front of the incoming horde of bandits that burst into the entrance to the hall. Merlin resigned himself to the theatrics he had previously dismissed. If he wanted to get Arthur and himself out of here in one piece, it had to be done.

Merlin sent up a prayer to his higher power that he could get away with this.

He summoned the thought into his mind and let it go in a burst. The chain holding the burning chandelier directly above the surging platoon abruptly rust and shattered, sending the massive fixture plummeting down on top of Hairy and shrinking the north entrance drastically.

Merlin shuffled himself backwards as quickly as he could manage as the candles secured in the chandelier flared. They flared so dramatically that the tapestries hanging on either side of the north entrance caught fire and burst into flames.

Frantic shouts rose up from the other side of the chandelier – the bandits were breaking rank, some batting at themselves, attempting to put out the flames that began to eat away at their clothing.

As Merlin continued to scoot backwards away from the fray, he chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw Arthur rushing towards him, the hilt of the sword he’d been waving around now tied to his belt and a dagger in hand. Behind him, Georg seemed to be having a rest on the ground.

“I’ve got you,” Arthur said as he clamped his hand down around Merlin’s arm and hauled him up onto his feet.

“Would you look at that!” Merlin exclaimed enthusiastically when he caught Arthur staring at the tumbled, burning chandelier that was blocking the rest of the brigands from entering the hall from the north entrance, “How incredibly lucky!”

Merlin was mentally kicking himself. By the _Gods_ , if he couldn’t come up with less idiotic things to say, he was going to see himself going up in flames in a not too distant future. A hard shudder wracked his body at the mere thought. Arthur would be angry. But he wouldn’t do _that_.

“Come now, _Mer_ lin. Don’t be such a coward.” Arthur had felt his shudder and mistook his fear – Merlin wasn’t about to clarify so he let it go as he felt the cool press of Arthur’s scavenged dagger slip between the ropes that bound his wrists. He could see Arthur keeping one eye on the serendipitously burning entrance as he sawed at the rope with the dagger. Merlin released a small sigh of relief as the ropes fell from his wrists to the ground.

“There we go. You see, Merlin? I’m not dead. Perfectly alright, actually.” Arthur chatted almost conversationally as he started pulling Merlin back towards the south entrance. “And I’m getting us out of here.”

Merlin scoffed as he took off after Arthur, putting more and more distance between himself and the backdrop of equal parts rage-filled and terrified bandits trapped by the blaze as their captured manor began to alight around them. 

“Awfully self-important, aren’t you?” Merlin grumbled as they skid out a back entrance, into an over-grown and wooded back acreage. “Taking credit for the gifts that Lady Luck bestowed on us...”

Arthur merely waved his hand in the air dismissively at the comment. He stood still a moment, glancing around and clearly getting his bearings for the lay of the land. “Ah!” he said finally as Merlin trudged up beside him, eager to push the King along and not linger too close to the manor still filled with bandits, “that’s the way!”

Merlin was no expert – in fact, most of the time he got turned around pretty easily – but he was more than sure that the direction Arthur had started to take off in was completely opposite from Camelot.

“Arthur you can’t be serious!”

“This was just a _delay_ , Merlin,” Arthur informed without turning back, his hand gesturing in the general direction of the bandit-filled manor, “hardly something worth calling off the quest. The knife must be retrieved.”

Merlin jogged forward and caught up with his headstrong, clotpole of a King. He kept pace with the man, just behind Arthur’s right flank.

“I know you think it’s me who can’t think –“

“I know it’s you who can’t think.”

“- but have you ever stopped to think that perhaps, oh, I don’t know, the path to reach this dagger is so dangerously contrived for a reason?”

Arthur sighed.

“Do tell me _your_ reasoning, _Mer_ lin. I can tell you’re just aching to share it.” Merlin could tell Arthur was only half paying attention as he picked his way through the brush, careful to avoid leaving a trail of cracked branches in his wake, lest the bandits take chase.

“I _think_ ,” Merlin said, trying to affect an air of casual but legitimate concern, instead of the gnawing bad funny feeling he had eating away inside of him, “that this knife is extensively hidden because it _isn’t meant to be found_. It’s likely good and safe, just where it is.”

“Oh, don’t be a lazy sod, Merlin,” Arthur teased, climbing around some particularly vicious looking and jagged rocks, “the knife is in a _cave_. A cave! It will be much safer in the vaults of Camelot, protected by the best knights in the land.”

Merlin sighed, defeated for now. He knew better than to push the issue and attract unwanted attention from Arthur, who would want to know _exactly_ why Merlin had such strong misgivings about this mythical artifact. Merlin couldn’t very well tell him about the extensive conversations he’d had with Gaius about the magical properties of this legendary knife, and its true Old Religion origins.

In truth, Merlin didn’t really know all that much himself about the workings of the knife – only what it was rumoured to have done, and what the stories said it sought. Gaius had been pressed for time in telling Merlin about the dagger and what to expect, as the whole half-baked plan to retrieve the relic had come together with great speed.

Merlin knew there was more to know about the dagger, and fully intended to question Gaius in greater detail when they returned to Camelot. In leaving, Gaius had been sure to stress a single point of information that he’d imparted on Merlin.

The King – and most _especially_ the warlock – must not come in direct contact with the dagger.

The very warning put Merlin on edge and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He was going to have to come up with some way to dissuade Arthur from taking the dagger from its resting place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still, sadly, do not own Merlin, nor do I make any money from writing my favourite character into unfortunate situations so I can cry about it.

Merlin stood dumbfounded at the opening of what was perhaps the most unassuming cave he had ever set eyes upon.

Arthur, the great prat, had _actually found the cave_. And said King was giving Merlin the _look_. The look that conveyed that all was natural in the world – Merlin was wrong and Arthur was right and how could anything worth fearing also somehow be protected within _this_ pathetic excuse for a cave?

Merlin indulged in the cool shiver that ran down his spine.

He had a _feeling_.

“Keep in mind,” Merlin said a tad testily, as Arthur continued to gloat with his eyes, “that we had to escape hoards of bandits, traverse _days_ of confusing forestry in which we got turned about multiple times, fend off the obscenely _large and hungry_ wildlife, _climb_ a jagged rocky mountain –“

“It was more of a hill.” Arthur volunteered helpfully.

“ – and trudge through an ice cold ravine to even make it here.”

“Ah, but we _are_ here, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur chuckled, giving his manservant a strong clap on the shoulder, as if to console the man for being so wrong about the natural safety of the relic.

“It could be larger inside...” Merlin muttered, gently rubbing his now tender shoulder, falling into step behind Arthur as the man crossed the threshold of the cave.

As soon as they’d travelled deep enough into the cave to lose the sounds of nature outside and the bright beams of daylight, Merlin became aware of two things.

First off, he was correct in his suspicions that the cave was larger on the inside. It seemed to go on forever, an eerie glow emanating from the stones embedded in the walls, keeping visibility in the cavern to just enough to make someone who was skittish jump at shadows.

Second, Merlin was beginning to contemplate jumping at shadows.

He was feeling extremely ill at ease, and the uncomfortable tingle at the back of his neck only worsened the deeper he and Arthur travelled into the cave. He could feel his magic churning around inside him, reacting to the ominous atmosphere.

It wasn’t good to be here. They shouldn’t be here.

Merlin looked around as they continued to venture deeper into the cave, but all he could see in the dim glow was the cold stone ground, and the rough texture of the never ending rocky walls that surrounded them. This cave was a straight tunnel, with no other paths.

While Merlin supposed he should be glad that this limited the possibility of anyone jumping out from behind and knocking the seven bells out of them, the simplicity of the cave was rattling him. The cave was imbued with magic – the quartz stones glowing on the walls were reflecting light that was not natural. There was no way any wayward traveller or Simpleton could get lost in this cave –all would eventually make it to the end. The final path to the knife was so simple, as if it were only waiting to reward the adventurer with the skills required to make it to the cave.

He knew the knife still remained within. He could feel the dark magic in the air, thickening the deeper the two men went into the cavern. Beckoning.

Merlin continued to rub his shoulder, inanely trying to sooth the chill that was beginning to settle in around his very soul.

Arthur shouldn’t be here. _Merlin shouldn’t be here._

The further he walked, the more his magic churned, as if it was trying to run away and take Merlin with it. Merlin cast a glance over at Arthur, who had been silent but for the scraping of his boots across the pebbled rocks dotting the stone floor. Arthur wore a cold look of determination as he observed the cave around them and the path ahead, his left hand resting deceivingly gently on the hilt of his sword.

Merlin opened his mouth to say something – to break the eerie silence around them and attempt again to convince Arthur to let this one relic go – but snapped his mouth shut as they came around what was the final bend in the cavern.

The cave opened up into a large, circular dead-end. The cave ceiling loomed high above, dotted in stalactite spears that dripped water intermittently on the cold stone floor below. The walls were coated in the glowing quartz stones, illuminating the wide expanse enough to create the illusion of a complete visual, but Merlin was intensely aware of the shadows that loomed.

Around his feet, a cold fog had settled in, spreading out across the whole chamber. Merlin shivered, aware that the chill surrounding him was partly due to the sudden drop in temperature, but also the cold, icy grasp of dark magic that pervaded the cavern.

And there, resting atop an intricately carved stone pedestal in the center of the room was the dagger.

“Do you see, Merlin?” Arthur’s confident voice shattered the silence that had permeated since entering the cave, “The knife is just _sitting_ right here. Any nefarious person could just waltz right in and take it!”

Merlin’s gut feeling really begged to differ at that. He did not trust the knife, or anything it rested upon. If the knife still remained, there _had_ to be a reason.

Was it only there, tempting travellers with its dark energy, waiting for the right wielder to pass through and take it?

Arthur took a step toward the dagger and Merlin snapped out of his suspicious daze, reaching out and clamping his hand around Arthur’s arm. Arthur’s brow rose, and he looked back at his manservant expectantly.

“If that were the case,” Merlin offered by way of explanation for his actions, “then would not some suitably nefarious person already have come by and done so? It is, after all, just sitting _right there._ ”

Merlin nodded his head pointedly towards the pedestal and did not relinquish his grasp of the king.

Arthur’s blue-eyed gaze travelled from Merlin back to the dagger, silent and intense in the wake of Merlin’s question, and Merlin’s obvious caution.

Merlin was near holding his breath as he observed Arthur mulling over his words. Despite their constant sparring and insulting of each other, and Arthur’s frequent claims that Merlin was a clumsy, daft fool, Merlin knew that his word carried weight with the king.

They were more than just a master and his servant; they were close friends and two sides of the same coin, even if Arthur was unaware. After having been through so many perilous and life-altering journeys together, Arthur knew to consider Merlin’s funny feelings. The king may call Merlin a coward, but never had the sentiment rung true.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, Arthur shifted and stepped out of Merlin’s grasp.

One step closer to the knife.

Merlin’s stomach plummeted, a great big leaden weight taking residency. Arthur would not be swayed. The warlock could not stop the cold, panicky sensation that was spreading through him. Try. He had to try again to dissuade Arthur.

“Do you even know what it’s capable of, Arthur?” Merlin had attempted to sound assertive; confident as he challenged the decision of his friend and sovereign. Instead, his voice came out low and hushed, a whispered warning that seemed to have its own physical presence, resting atop the fog and demanding to be acknowledged.

Arthur paused in his movement, and Merlin waited, staring after him. Truthfully, Merlin knew precious little in the grand scheme of things about the Old Religion relic that lay before the pair. But he knew the legends; he knew Gaius’ words of caution, and he knew enough of the temptations and evils of dark magic to be cautious.

And somewhere, deep in the pit of his gut, struggling against the weight of inexplicable panic that was threatening to devour him from the inside out, Merlin’s magic knew to _fear_ it.

 

“You were present for the council meeting, Merlin. You know as well as I do what it supposedly is capable of.” Arthur complained impatiently, “Striking down enemies from afar, bringing great tragedy unto those it is wielded against, and craving great power.” Arthur eyed the pedestal with undisguised disbelief as he rattled off the list. But yet, Merlin could also see the wariness, “a lofty order for such a small, ornate trinket.”

“The legends are old wives tales, Merlin,” Arthur finished finally, shaking his head, but Merlin heard the hesitancy in his voice, “Any weapon can bring about tragedy.”

“If you do not believe the tales,” Merlin challenged, his voice once again a powerful whisper, stirring the fog, “then why seek the knife?”

Arthur turned his head and levelled a frustrated glare at his manservant.

“Because, _Mer_ lin, of the small possibility that some of the stories could be true,” the king said; to Merlin it was a confession of concern, but to Arthur it was probably merely only a statement meant to placate his overly meddlesome servant. “It is a magical item, and therefore it cannot be trusted to rest here so freely.”

Arthur continued his approach to the pedestal, and Merlin had no choice left but to follow. He had said his piece – been even more assertive in his opinions than usual, and still Arthur’s mind would not be changed about the knife. Arthur was being perhaps even _more_ obstinate than usual, in the face of Merlin’s obvious concern. The warlock fought the disheartening feeling that always washed over him whenever Arthur mentioned his distrust for all things magic.

“This can only end badly...” Merlin mumbled under his breath, coming up to stand a fair distance to Arthur’s left side. He was close enough to make out the intricate carvings of the knife now, but far enough away that Arthur would not think Merlin to be crowding him. The knife was fairly substantial in size – almost the length of Merlin’s forearm. The knife had no sheath upon the pedestal, and instead its engraved blade reflected freely in the eerie glow of the chamber, embedded in a hilt as black as midnight.

The blade had words carved into it, but in a language that Merlin could not immediately discern. Carvings on items of the Old Religion never boded well, and Merlin felt his body become impossibly even more taught with fearful anticipation.

The tension in the chamber was a palpable thing as Arthur’s hand slowly reached out and hovered above the dagger.

Merlin had failed to heed Gaius’ warnings many times in the past, but he knew with a certainty that scared him that he could _not_ let Arthur touch that dagger. And so Merlin, as he stood off to the side and watched Arthur’s fingers start to curl in anticipation of grasping the knife, reached out with his magic.

It wasn’t much – just enough magic to disturb the fog around Arthur’s feet.

It was just enough magic to push back against Arthur as the blonde’s finger tips, to Merlin’s mounting horror, grazed the hilt.

Somehow, it was just enough magic to garner the attention of the knife. Merlin heard it in the air, _in his mind_ , it was so clear and hollow sounding he could hardly discern if Arthur had heard it as well – a single word, a moment too late.

**_Emrys_ **

In an instant, Merlin was flung backwards by an invisible force and collided with the rock wall behind him. All at once he felt his breathe escape him – rushing out of his lungs and diaphragm, leaving him desperately gasping for air as he released what was left in a silent shout of pain when the sharp rocks embedded in the walls dug into his back and head upon collision.

Merlin’s mind was reeling. What had just happened? He felt as if the contents of his skull had been completely rattled, and no amount of blinking and gasping was restoring him to being able to breathe; to being able to _focus_ on what had to be coming.

Somewhere amidst all the fog – was there actually fog, again? Or was it all just in his mind? – Merlin could hear someone shouting his name.

_Arthur?_ Why was Arthur shouting his name? Why was _physical_ fog somehow clouding his mind?

Merlin gasped and heaved, desperate to suck in air as he struggled to find purchase on the wall behind him. His pathetic attempt to slide up the wall and get his footing underneath him was quickly scrapped as he felt the sharp rocks dig into his tunic and nick his skin.

**_Emrys_ **

Merlin’s eyes shot open. Somehow in his rattled mind and frantic attempts to just _breathe_ , he finally remembered why something _wasn’t right_.

That was not Arthur. Arthur did not know that name.

“Merlin!”

There it was – Arthur’s voice again, shouting his name.

Merlin’s vision finally came into focus, and he could see Arthur, still standing near the pedestal eyes wide and staring back at him with his hand outstretched, as if he could stop what was coming with sheer will alone.

Arthur’s horrified gaze turned to the knife, and Merlin’s followed. It was glowing atop the pedestal, the same dark, eerie blue that illuminated the cavern. The ground beneath their feet began to quake, the water droplets dripping from the ceiling now almost pouring down around them, as if they were caught in a small storm.

A single stalactite dislodged itself from the cavern ceiling and plunged into the ground, a hairsbreadth away from Merlin’s still partially crumbled form against the wall. Startled, Merlin pushed himself up against the rocks, ignoring the painful press of the sharps stones against his back.

 Still gasping for breath and ignoring the warm trickle down the back of his neck, Merlin looked up from the sharp spear embedded in the ground and back towards the pedestal.  

The knife was hurtling through the air, towards him, the blade gleaming in the eerie glow and cutting through the fog that had risen to shoulder height during the quake.

Merlin had no time; no choice. He threw out his hand and gasped out a ragged word, his strangled voice barely audible amidst the rumbling and Arthur’s shouts and the absolutely deafening pounding of Merlin’s heart.

The course of the knife veered infinitesimally; it was all Merlin had been able to accomplish with the mere fraction of time he’d been given. With a horrifying crunch, the knife sliced through the inner arm of Merlin’s tunic, pinning him to the cavern wall just beneath his left shoulder.

So close, _too_ close, to his heart.

Merlin’s heart was pounding, bashing against his chest frantically, adrenaline and fear near-consuming him. The knife was no longer glowing, but he could feel the dark magic pulsating around it

Evil. So _Evil. He had to get away._

Merlin shook and jerked against the blade, but could not break free from its hold. His struggle to breathe grew worse, and he knew he needed to calm down and focus, he knew, but he couldn’t. He had to get away.

Suddenly two hands were on his face, gripping his head and forcing him to look into Arthur’s concerned eyes and away from the knife.

“Merlin! Merlin look at me. You’re okay. Breathe. You’re going to be okay.”

Arthur let one hand slip from his hold and made to grab the hilt of the dagger, as if to free Merlin.

“No!” Merlin tried to shout, but it came out ragged and rasping and _Gods_ , he needed to find a way to actually suck in some air and _keep_ it. He was having a panic attack. He’d seen it enough times in Gaius’ infirmary to know the symptoms, and he knew he needed to find a way to steady his breathing; to calm down.

But seeing as he couldn’t find any reason to not be panicking, he couldn’t stop the shaking that was consuming his lithe form and he couldn’t stop the panic.

“Merlin, let me check the knife,” Arthur’s voice was soft, low, and edged with panic itself. Merlin’s panic was clearly deeply unsettling to the king. “I can’t see any blood – I need to see if you’re hurt. Talk to me, Merlin.”

“No,” Merlin shook his head, coughing around the air lodged in his throat and fighting off the fog that was starting to hover yet again around his vision, “don’t touch it. Can’t touch it.”

Arthur looked from Merlin to the knife. Then back again. Slowly, as if dealing with a skittish animal, Arthur dropped his hand down to the side of his own red tunic. With a decided tug, He tore a sizeable swatch of fabric from his shirt and wrapped the end of it around the palm of his hand.

Slowly, very slowly, he reached back up and wrapped his covered hand around the hilt of the dagger. Merlin, his mind too foggy with the lack of the very air he was choking on, could do nothing but stare.

But nothing happened.

Arthur gave the dagger a few good jerks, before finally succeeding in dislodging it from the stone wall. Stumbling back a few steps from the force of his pull, Arthur stared at the dagger in fearful wonder. The blade was completely unmarred, of either dirt or Merlin’s blood.

“You’re okay.” Arthur breathed out again whilst staring at the naked blade, this time his voice laden with relief instead of panic. “The knife barely missed you, thank God.”

Merlin, freed of the dagger’s presence, finally calmed down enough to stop choking on the air and finally, _finally_ filled his lungs. Lightheaded and exhausted, he dropped forward from his painful position against the wall and fell to his knees, throwing out his hands in front of him to catch himself before he knocked himself about more than he’d already been.

Frankly, Merlin had had enough bashing and tossing around, thank you very much.

 Arthur was there by his side in moments, a cool hand on the back of his neck. Merlin flinched as he felt the king press his fingers lightly against a particularly burning part at the back of his skull. He’d have to take a good poke at that himself, at some point.

“You’re bleeding.” Arthur stated matter-of-factly.

“Figures as much,” Merlin grumbled, his voice still sounding choked to his own ears, remembering the warm trickle down the back of his neck.

“You slammed against the wall with some force,” Arthur murmured, his voice sounding somewhat far-away as he examined Merlin’s blood on his fingertips, “I’d wager you’re lucky that all you have is a flesh wound.”

Merlin would have scoffed at that, had he not been so busy trying to breathe at regular, even intervals and heard the obvious hesitancy in Arthur’s voice. The king wasn’t showing it, but Merlin knew him well enough after all these years to know when he was rattled. And Arthur was clearly disturbed by the events that had just unfolded. But whether it was Merlin’s toss against the wall or his subsequent uncharacteristic panic attack, he couldn’t tell.

The fact that Arthur hadn’t yet poked fun at Merlin for his apparently unwarranted near fit of the vapours lent credence to the fact that Arthur was concerned.

 “What _was_ that?” Merlin gasped out, desperate to shake the icy cold tendrils that were curling about his insides. The warlock had not touched the knife. He hadn’t _touched_ it! And Arthur barely had. Not enough, surely, to cause any harm.

Arthur frowned, concerned as he glanced back from Merlin to the pedestal. “The dais must have been booby-trapped.”

Merlin _did_ scoff at that. He shot an incredulous look at Arthur over his shoulder, seeing as he was still down on his hands and knees, trying to get his bearings and breathing through the pain in his back.

“Booby-trapped, Arthur? _Really_? That dagger nearly skewered me!”

Arthur sported a small, relieved grin as he clapped Merlin on the shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. Clearly, Arthur was willing to let Merlin’s blatant disrespect for Arthur’s opinions slide in favour of proof that his manservant wasn’t going to slip back into hysterics, or pass out from his head injury. Merlin was, for all intents and purposes, back to his regular, insubordinate self.

At the mention of the dagger, both Arthur and Merlin’s gaze had slid to stare at it, still gripped tightly in Arthur’s hand, the hilt still covered by the wound cloth of Arthur’s tunic.

Arthur placed the dagger on the ground.

“I thought the legends said it sought power?” Arthur mused as he shrugged out of his vest, with a pointed look at Merlin’s still semi-sprawled form.

“I’m really quite wise, you know!” Merlin shot back, affronted by Arthur’s obvious direction of thought but relieved to have the reprieve of their usual banter from his worried thoughts.  The fog, it seemed, had blocked Arthur from seeing him cast to protect himself from the knife. But why, _why_ had he had to protect himself from the blade? Why had it even gone after him?

And _why_ had he heard ‘Emrys’? He could not believe that it had all been his imagination. It had been too real. But only to his own ears, it seemed, as Arthur hadn’t questioned him about that either. No, he was currently preoccupied with wrapping his vest around the entirety of the dagger, and questioning Merlin’s intelligence.

“No,” Arthur stated, a flat out denial of the possibility that Merlin just _might_ be wise, “Clearly it must be broken.”

“Broken. Yes.” Merlin chirped, finally pushing himself up to wobble a bit on his legs, finding his center of balance and wincing as he placed his hand against the back of his head and pulled it away, covered in blood. “That’s why I almost wound up dead because of you and your silly shiny object!”

“Really Merlin, dead?” Arthur challenged, scooping up his vest and the knife within.

“Yes. Dead!” Despite the fact that Merlin was relieved his magic had gone unnoticed and he was thoroughly _not_ dead, he was still immensely unhappy with the events that had unfolded. First and foremost, _Arthur had the dagger_.

“Dead? As in unresponsive?” Arthur challenged, quoting Merlin from just days before.

“Yes!” Merlin snarked, taking off his neckerchief to hold it to the back of his sore head. His vision had finally stopped going wonky, and he was confident he wasn’t concussed. Arthur was correct, it was just a flesh wound, but Merlin wasn’t about to come out and say it. They both knew Arthur was right.

“Well, in that case, that doesn’t sound like such a bad deal for me. I wouldn’t have to deal with all your constant nattering.” Arthur retorted, even as he reached out a hand to steady Merlin and help him wobble out of the chamber. Clearly, Merlin hadn’t gotten all of his jitters out just yet.

And clearly, Arthur wasn’t as relaxed about all that had unfolded as he wanted Merlin to believe.


End file.
